| I don’t own diamonds
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| There’s nothing in the lining
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| Call me a backpacker
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| I keep the music climbin'
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| I’ve got heart, I’ve got soul
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| Ready or not I think out the box
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| Niggas … to call our names, put me in categories
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| My story?
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| I guess I backpack my way to glory
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| With a napsack I’m strapped
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| Like a days of awe
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| My question — did the hip hop loose its soul?
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| Am I to just pigeonhole with no room to grow?
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| I do songs to perform, not to come to blows
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| I’m a professional you know?
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| Don’t label me nigga, all the sizzles closed
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| I chose to wear earth tones
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| And leave rappers like the colour on my birthstones
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| Like a thief with
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| And told them to wild
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| I’m home grown but I’m fond to advance
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| I became my own man, god damn!
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| It’s all about hard work nigga leave nothing to chance
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| I gotta move forward, I gotta advance
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| Please quit with the glancing
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| I’ve been doing this since Hally Hansen
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| Wasn’t
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| Nigga must you keep asking?
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| I do it for the love, why you got that reaction?
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| Yo, bare for radio to hot for TV
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| My BDS scams are embarassing slightly
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| I’m still waiting for VH1 to mic me
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| They say I’m too underground for MTV
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| Like a little to deep for average listeners
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| Spit a verse that’ll fuck up your algorithms
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| I sound like the birdmans grill
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| Got an abundance of rap skill so I spill
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| My beans on this industry niggas that
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| Well I’m fat like a sound
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| Like the Matrix they call it a machine
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| I’m straight to the point like a laser beam
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| Got a lock on my spot like
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| Or credits on production
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| Mic check one, one, two, three
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| I’m no tree hugger, vegan or activist
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| Well, maybe when it comes to this rapping shit
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| I’m trying to filter those who pop up like spam if I can
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| But bill boys |